Black or Blue?
by Bura-sama
Summary: Alcohol leads to a tragic fate. Features: Character death and alcohol abuse.


1051  
Bura-sama  
Wednesday, April 24, 2002  
Wednesday, April 24, 2002

Disclaimer: Digimon belongs in no way to me. I'm making no profit from this hopefully depressing story. Really, I'm not. I don't own the characters, I'm merely using them for my sick and twisted fantasies, and no infringement is intended.

Warnings: This fic features character death, and alcohol abuse. I have no knowledge Japanese funeral services, so any inaccuracies with that are on my part only. There are no romantic relationships in this fic. You have been warned, and any damage you receive is strictly your own fault. 

Note: Italics are either emphasis. No flashback scenes.  
This is one of the few fics I write where you can observe my love for one-line paragraphs.  
There's no dialogue in this thing. I guess that makes it a monologue...  
I dedicate this to Glory (my horse). Get well soon, baby.

Black or Blue

I didn't wear black. I think I was supposed to wear black. Instead, I settled for a dark navy blue dress that _looked_ black.

But I didn't wear black.

_The sun was shining on the sea, shining with all his might..._

It was sick and morbid, I suppose. He'd never been fond of Lewis Carroll -- actually, I can't even remember him ever reading either _Alice in Wonderland_ or _Through the Looking Glass_. I read about Alice, once, for a book report in my English class. They weren't exactly words to live by.

It seemed to fit somehow. The sun was smooth and bright, washing the cemetery in light. Not a cloud was in the sky, so there was no shade for any of us.

Not that we deserved shade.

We were a sorry lot. Crying, sniveling, and being general mourners -- all despite the fact that we'd done nothing to help him when he was alive.

He was crying out for help. We ignored him. I'd like to think that we didn't hear his cries. I'd like to think that since I wasn't even in the country when it started I had an excuse.

But I knew.

I heard his pleas for help -- and I ignored them.

Ignorance is bliss, I guess.

I look back on everything he said and did -- I must have been blind. I had to have been blind not to have seen what was happening.

God, how many times had I gotten into a car with him? How many times had I put my life into his hands, _knowing_ that it could kill us all? How many times had I believed him when he told me he was sober? He reeked of alcohol and I still handed the keys of my car to him. It was easier to trust him than to admit that he had a problem.

I'm so selfish.

I was stupid and blind.

We lie to each other. We're circled around his grave, telling each other that we didn't know. We tell each other that we would have done something _if only we had known._

It's sickening.

I was there when he took his first drink. We were all at a party to celebrate his sister's engagement. She couldn't have been more than fifteen -- that would make him just entering college. I was home -- no matter where I live, this will always be my home -- for summer vacation and was having such a good time that I just turned a blind eye to that first glass. I forget exactly what he had -- something stronger than beer but softer than whiskey. Oh, how he loved his whiskey.

He sat the drink aside, and I thought he was okay. I thought that he was stronger than he really was. He told me later, though, that he hadn't _really_ liked it, but it made him feel more accepted among everyone else.

That was the first murmur for help that I ignored.

After that summer, I came back to New York and I didn't think about it. I suppose it made me feel better, the not knowing.

During my third year of college, I transferred home. All of my friends greeted me at the airport and we all had lunch together. I just pretended not to notice the tension in the air when he ordered a glass of water. Throughout the meal, he added something discreetly to it from a silver flask he kept in his coat pocket.

I turned my head from it, as any true friend would.

About a week later, I showed up at his apartment door to go shopping for his sister's wedding gift. I never said anything about the bloodshot eyes or the stench of beer on his breath.

It was another cry for help that somehow escaped my attention.

I let him drive me around the city even though I knew he could barely walk straight. I bought him martinis and tequila when we partied every other Saturday night.

Some friend I am.

Things were getting worse, as I learned from his sister. She told me that he was always in a foul temper. She said that he locked himself out of his apartment one day and knocked on every door on his floor, cursing everyone and accusing him or her of stealing his keys.

I couldn't believe that this was the same boy I'd known since we were eleven. His sister must have misunderstood.

It seems as though I'd gone through life with blinders on -- or at least rose-colored glasses.

It all came to a crashing halt on his sister's wedding day. She hadn't wanted to start without him, but she couldn't delay anymore after two hours. So she was married -- without her brother there. Somehow, I don't think that all of her tears were from joy.

I suppose it was the worst day of her life. She was dancing with her new husband when the call finally made it through.

There'd been an accident, a one-vehicle collision with a bridge. The car has gone off the side of the bridge, bursting into flames, until it reached the water. The driver had been badly burned and was barely clinging to life. He'd been rushed to--

No one needed to hear the rest of the call. We all knew it was him. We all knew he was going to die.

I imagine we were quite the sight. An entire wedding ceremony -- even if it was a small wedding -- showing up at the hospital. I can still see his sister bursting into sobs and covering her face with her veil when the doctor told her that he was already gone.

He was always a strong person, the one to make the situation seem better with a dull joke that we laughed at even if it wasn't funny. They usually weren't. I never thought that he would give me reason to cry.

We didn't know.

We couldn't have known.

'Cause if we did...

... We'd be just as guilty.

I threw a red rose onto his grave when everything was said and done. It didn't seem to be enough, but it was all I had left to give him. "I'm so sorry..."

================================

In case you haven't figured it out, Mimi's talking about Taichi.


End file.
